


All Great and Precious Things

by TheLifeOfEmm



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Immediately Post-Seine, Javert is carried, Javert is touch-starved, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Not exactly angst, not exactly fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-11-05 02:51:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17910584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLifeOfEmm/pseuds/TheLifeOfEmm
Summary: After the river, Javert is carried to bed."All great and precious things are lonely."- John Steinbeck, East of Eden





	All Great and Precious Things

At first, he is aware of only two things: the sound, and the pain. The sound is an uneven creaking, the sort which wooden floorboards make out of spite when one is trying deliberately to be quiet. The pain is all-encompassing; every part of him aches and burns, though in his muddled, disordered state, he cannot say why.

He is also very cold.

Eventually, other sensations begin to return to him as Javert stirs awake. His clothes are soaked to the skin. As for his hair, it is plastered to his head and neck in loose, wet strands. Does he wear his greatcoat? He thinks not. He can feel his shirtsleeve clinging limply to his arm as it dangles in midair. His legs dangle, too. It is too great a mystery for his troubled mind to unriddle.

A hacking cough racks his frame for a moment, and the tread on the floor stops as a small trickle of water runs down the side of his mouth. Then his entire body is shifted, and for the first time Javert perceives the thing which he is pressed against.

It is solid and warm to the touch, though no drier than he is. He is supported under the knees and under the arms. The rest hangs, but he is not afraid he will fall. Some instinct tells him he has fallen already this night.

He is being carried, it dawns on him slowly. His face is pressed into the crook of a corded neck, and his closer arm is slung over a shoulder. Hands hold him firmly, but gently, and as the footsteps start up again, he feels himself moved.

But how did he come to be here? Who would think to— _oh_.

He has his answer the very second he poses the question. Of course it is he. It always is. And as Jean Valjean comes again to a halt, Javert cannot find it within himself to feel anything other than a singular, immense relief.

For a moment, there is nothing to do but be still, feeling their heartbeats thud roughly out of time. Valjean is like a mountain, grounded and anchoring, and Javert thinks that if he were to stay in that twilight state of being held forever, he would not mind so very much.

Then Valjean bends forward, and Javert understands in a rush what is about to happen. Valjean will set him down. Valjean will creep out the way he came in, and Javert will be all alone—

Without scarcely realizing he has done it, Javert’s hand tightens in Valjean’s shirt as a choked whimper escapes his mouth. At once, Valjean freezes, and Javert can read the sudden tension in his shoulders which comes not just from standing half-stooped over.

“Javert?” Valjean asks softly.

Javert cannot speak, and he remains too prideful to let another whimper slip from between his teeth. All the same, he is like a child; he does not wish to be alone. He has been stolen from the river, yes, but the river exists in his mind also, and its inky waters will drag him down even if the Seine cannot. Javert settles for pressing himself closer against Valjean’s neck, praying that the man will understand.

Valjean seems to. “I am here,” he whispers. “All will be well.” And then he carefully deposits Javert upon a bed.

Javert twists his head blindly, shoulders rising from the downy pillow, only for large hands to catch hold and press him back down to the sheets.

“You needn’t fear,” Valjean murmurs. “I am going to get you out of your wet things, that is all.”

Javert hears the words but cannot comprehend their meaning. Still, the tone is reassuring, and he allows himself to lay quietly as the presence which is Valjean moves across the room. He listens to the sounds of rustling fabric, and then those large hands are upon him again, undoing the buttons of his soaked shirt.

Against his bare chest, the heat of Valjean’s skin is almost unbearable. Javert has never been handled so, perhaps not even when he was a babe. Were he more in control of himself, he would rage against it, but he is not, and every careful touch undoes a little more of the ice in his soul.

His trousers are disposed of with the same quick efficiency, and then a linen nightshirt is pulled down over his head. The weave is finer than anything Javert has ever owned, and he trembles into it. Now Valjean will surely go, having done for his enemy all that is required by a saint, or a martyr.

Then the mattress dips, and Valjean wraps his fingers around Javert’s own. Javert can feel the weight of his gaze, and he shudders to think what judgement—or worse, what pity—he will find there. Nevertheless, Javert forces his eyes open a crack.

Valjean’s expression is mild, but there is a deep fatigue written in the lines of his mouth. He has also donned a nightshirt; their scattered clothes mingle in a wet pile on the floor.

“Javert.” The man’s features slide in and out of focus as Javert struggles to fix his concentration on Valjean’s face. “Would you feel safer sleeping on your own?”

It is strange that he should ask, made stranger in that Javert’s answer is surely the wrong one. He tightens his grip on Valjean’s hand in a silent plea— _stay_.

In the moonlight, Valjean’s eyes widen. He does not speak another word, however, as he crawls into the narrow bed alongside Javert, wrapping an arm around him and pulling him snugly against his chest.

This should not be so comfortable, Javert thinks. It can only be a product of the fever he can already feel rising in his blood. Yet even as sleep overtakes him, he cannot help but reflect that it is almost natural for it to come to this after so long.

There will be days when he is sullen and aloof. There will be days when he shouts and says things which are cruel and intended to cut. Yet for all that he knows that, for all that he knows his life has been irrevocably altered by this man laying next to him, it cannot be but that fate has twisted the threads of their lives together like a chain for some greater purpose. And as the exhaustion finally claims him, Javert swears he can feel the tender brush of lips against his hair, just the once.

It is very natural indeed.

**Author's Note:**

> Is this utterly self-indulgent? Yes. Am I projecting like an IMAX movie screen? Yes. Is it a little ooc? Probably. But it's the shortest thing I've written since 2015, so I'm publishing it anyway.


End file.
